Deck the Halls with Persian Slippers
by cjnwriter
Summary: My 2019 entries for Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge, huzzah!
1. Darwin's Distress

**And we're back, folks! An enthusiastic "Hello!" to all my old friends and acquaintances, and warm welcome to all who are new to the challenge. I do intend to read everyone's stories again this year. :)**

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**December 1: "Sherlock is tasked with discovering the origin of the human species" (from Michael JG Meathook)**

_**This prompt was a doozy, so thank you to my good friend Dextrous Fred (formerly 2718xyzu) for his cheeky idea.**_

* * *

"And what was this manuscript about, Mr. Darwin?" asked Holmes, leisurely lighting his pipe.

The bearded scientist clasped and unclasped his hands. "Well, its working title—somewhat ambitious, I must admit—is _On the Origin of the Human Species_."

Watson quirked an eyebrow.

"All very thoroughly researched," Darwin continued, "and much more work to be done, of course—"

"Yes, yes," said Holmes. "Now about the last place you saw it."

"I was at the station, Euston station, and I had it in my briefcase. It was locked, I am sure of it. It is this one, here." He picked up an ordinary looking, if somewhat weathered, brown case. Holmes examined it with interest as Darwin continued. "The partial manuscript and all of my notes were in it when I left that morning; I would wager my life upon that point. But when I opened it upon the train, they were gone."

"And you kept the briefcase in your sight the entire time you were in the station?" asked Holmes.

"Yes," replied Darwin. "That is the strangest thing about it!"

"Indeed," replied Holmes, softly.

There was a silence for a long moment.

"I have heard you called—and do myself believe you to be—Europe's greatest detective," said Darwin. "I do hope you can assist me."

Holmes sat as if frozen in time, staring at the ceiling.

"I am certain he can," Watson supplied, showing the scientist to the door.

As soon as it had closed again, Holmes sprang to his feet. "Now," said he, rubbing his hands together with a grin. "This is indeed a mystery worthy of 'Europe's greatest detective'".


	2. Poisonous Plants

**December 2: "Mrs Hudson Saves the Day" (from Ennui Enigma)**

* * *

This was the third time that week I had come by 221b to visit my dear friend, and it seemed that for a third time Holmes was away.

"He has scarcely been home more than five minutes at a time all week," Mrs. Hudson informed me. "I do hope this case is soon finished."

Scarcely had she uttered the words when who should open the front door but the Sherlock Holmes himself!

"Ah, Watson!" he exclaimed. "I have just wrapped up a very nasty business on behalf of Lestrade. A serial strangler, in the East End. But he is behind bars at last. Would you care to hear a little violin, my dear fellow? I am in the mood for a little composition, but I could play a few of your old favorites while you are here, if you like."

I exchanged a surprised glance with Mrs. Hudson; it had been some time since I had seen Holmes in such a pleasant and sociable mood.

We followed him up the stairs and into the sitting room, and I sat heavily in my old chair by the fire, eagerly awaiting the start of Holmes' private concert.

My dear friend picked up his violin and he settled into his chair by the fire and lifted the bow to the instrument. A moment later, his eyes flew wide open and he sprang to his feet from it with strangled gasp. "My plants!" he exclaimed.

"You needn't worry yourself, Mr. Holmes," said the landlady brusquely. "I watered them for you while you were away."

"Oh thank heavens," he replied, seating himself once again.

"You are growing plants?" I asked with interest. Holmes had never been once for gardening.

My dear friend quirked a grin. "Oh, just a few flowers in a window box. Safflower, rosebay, foxglove, hemlock…"

"And nightshade," Mrs. Hudson supplied. "And do not for one moment think I don't know why you've chosen those particular plants for your bedroom. It's absolute madness," she went on under her breath as she bustled out of the sitting room.

"What would you do without her?" I said with a grin.

Holmes only smiled and lifted the bow to his Stradivarius.


	3. Holmes' Hiatus

**December 3: "The Fake-Dead Years" (from hold{dot}my{dot}coat). So sorry I can't write your username out properly; FanFiction is so persnickety about periods between words. And may I say—your profile picture is gorgeous!**

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_"I travelled for two years in Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa, and spending some days with the head lama. You may have read of the remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news of your friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum the results of which I have communicated to the Foreign Office. Returning to France, I spent some months in a research into the coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory at Montpellier, in the south of France." – Sherlock Holmes, "The Adventure of the Empty House"_

* * *

While the account of my Hiatus that I gave to my dear friend Watson upon my return to London was full of excitement and adventure, much of my time during those three long years was spent in quiet solitude. I could not become comfortable enough with any person or group to let my guard down for a moment, and I took care not to stay in one place long enough to risk sinking into the sort of complacency that can so easily lead to letting something slip; my life depended on it.

I spent nights innumerable nights contemplating the ceilings of cheap hostel rooms, the stars above, smoking rising idly from the bowls of a trusty pipes… anything that could hold my attention for more than a moment. My access to books was limited, and I dared not write anything related to my profession, lest a notebook be lost or stolen and fall into the hands of my enemies. I missed solving cases, I missed reading and writing and researching, and I found that day by day, I most of all missed my dear Watson. I would have gladly listened to him prattle for hours about anything at all, even the penny dreadfuls he so often read, or the latest Gilbert and Sullivan production (though I had little patience for such stuff and nonsense). It would have been a welcome relief from the loneliness.

There were certainly days and weeks of excitement and adventure, but they were like bursts of bright color upon the dull canvas of my life, which had become a greyscale blur of fading hopes and vague fears. Ah; I noted that I had fallen again into the habit of thinking in far more romantic of terms than I ever would have accepted from myself in the past. I supposed it had become a way of filling the void left in my life during those many months bereft of his—

"Holmes, are you listening to me?" Watson's tone was exasperated, but not unkind.

"Hm?" All at once I was aware of the sitting room around me. I had been staring into the fire; I blinked away the negative reliefs of flames emblazoned in my vision as I looked to my old friend.

"I asked if you missed travelling the world, seeing all those places."

"No," I replied. "I find I am more than content here."


	4. A Chemical Catalyst

**December 4: "London fog" (from Domina Temporis)**

**A/N: I'm not totally happy with how this flows, but it is time for bed.**

* * *

It was the twenty-third of December, and as thick a pea-soup fog as ever lay upon London's streets was upon us when tragedy struck the largest Christmas market in the city. There was the sound of an explosion, followed by the immediate deaths of eleven people. Two dozen others were hospitalized, five nearly blind and several others exhibiting every sign of serious pulmonary illness.

When Inspector Lestrade summoned us to the scene of the crime, the fog had lifted somewhat, but no clear sky could brighten the disturbing feeling that hung in the air whenever death was close at hand, especially here, in a place usually so filled with vibrancy and joy. After the Inspector recounted what had happened, the thing I found strangest was that the street itself seemed to bear no signs of an explosion.

Holmes paced the length of the street twice; no booth was left unchecked, no brick or cobblestone unexamined. Once or twice he leaned down and swiped a finger across some substance upon the ground. At length, he returned to where the Inspector and I stood.

"Well?" said Lestrade.

"We must go into the sewers," Holmes replied.

Lestrade and I exchanged a disheartened glance, but we followed him as he climbed down the ladder into the sewer. I noted that the placement of the opening so near the center of the market. I supposed our villain must have done something in the sewer which had prompted the explosion sound, and somehow injured all of those people. A poison, no doubt.

Once we were all standing in ankle-deep substances I care not to mention, I voiced this thought.

"Hydrogen fluoride," said Holmes.

I frowned. "It is deadly if splashed onto the skin. But how was it used here?" I gestured upwards. "And on so many people?"

"It must have been released into the fog in the explosion," said Lestrade.

Holmes nodded. "It is highly irritating if dispersed in the air, and long exposure to such a cloud can be deadly."

"How the deuce could this man have obtained such a substance anyway?" asked Lestrade.

"Fluorspar could be obtained from the glass industry, and produces large quantities of hydrofluoric acid," replied Holmes as he examined the area around us. "I suspect the man behind this, or a confederate of his, is responsible for break in at the Henderson glass factory last week, as well as the chemical plant which found some of their peroxide missing a few days ago."

"Quite so," Lestrade murmured, scrawling in his notebook. "Bradstreet will be glad to learn you are indirectly helping with his cases. This explosion, though," he added at length. "How was it done?"

"It is difficult to say with certainty; so much of the evidence was taken from this place before we arrived," replied Holmes. "I suspect a large tub filled with hydrogen peroxide and hydrogen fluoride, a goodly amount of soap, and a crystal catalyst. Such a mixture would cause an instant, massive, and explosive expansion of the fluoride into a highly flammable foam, which would then disperse the hydrogen fluoride far into the air in all directions, most notably upwards."

There was a final point I felt had not been addressed. "How could our man have dispersed it, then, without risking injury himself?"

"Well," replied Holmes, "apart from quickly departing after setting off his little explosion, he could protect himself from such a fog by use of goggles and a base-soaked cloth to cover his mouth. I suspect lye soap. It is also likely he embedded the catalyst in a cake of soap. It would dissolve slowly until the catalyst is exposed, and any lit torch nearby would act as ignition." He reached toward the wall and ran a finger along a scorch mark on the wall.

"So it would seem," replied Lestrade. "I suppose I must compare notes with Bradstreet, and then see what we can do about finding our rogue chemist."

* * *

**A/N: Special thanks to Dextrous Fred (formerly 2718xyzu) and his admittedly awesome sciencey science knowledge. Good thing he's not using his powers for evil…**


	5. Morrison's Mustache

**December 5: "A book signing" (from Domina Temporis)**

* * *

"John."

I stopped in my tracks at the door at the sound of my wife's voice. "Yes dear?"

"Is that…a false mustache?"

I turned slowly around. "Yes, as a matter of fact, it is."

* * *

Years beforehand, I'd had my first book signing. It was a small shop I had often frequented in those lonely days when I first came to London, and so held a particular importance to me. While a modest number of people came by, it was difficult to rid myself of one particular fan. He was a gentleman with an impressively large mustache, and be asked me question after question, some technical and others personal. It took me far longer than it should have to realize it was, in fact, Holmes.

"You rascal!" I exclaimed, drawing scandalized looks from a few nearby.

Holmes only laughed.

I was in a mood just impish enough that I responded by taking the ridiculous mustache right off of his face.

My friend swatted my arm. "That hurt, Watson."

"You old fool," I replied with a chuckle.

* * *

I'd kept the mustache. I never could say why. But when one of Holmes' monographs had garnered enough attention that his publisher wanted him to hold a book signing, I made sure it was put to good use. My friend saw through my disguise immediately, but played along as "Mr. Morrison" asked question after question, to the increasing confusion of the other scientific minds in attendance. It shall stand out in my memory as perhaps the most rewarding prank I ever pulled on my dear friend.


	6. A Detective's Decor

**December 6: "Something happens to Watson's revolver" (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

* * *

"Holmes, may I ask why my revolver is hanging on the Christmas tree?"

An impish smile played across the detective's lips. "You asked me to decorate, my dear fellow. If it's not to your liking, then next time you shall have to do it yourself!"

I could only shake my head. Holmes' pistol joined my revolver in decorating the tree, as well as a number of other oddities, including pens and pencils, a few gloves, various photographs of murderers, and perhaps most impressive: the case notes intricately folded into origami and hung upon the branches with colored ribbon. The tree topper was the twin of that Persian slipper that held his tobacco.

Truly, Holmes had put a good deal of time an effort into this little stunt. And I found that as much as I wanted to, I could not begrudge him his fun.

"Has Mrs. Hudson seen this yet?" I asked.

"Oh goodness, no," Holmes replied. "Shall we go out to dinner so that we are far away when she does?"

"Perfect," I replied.

Holmes jumped to his feet. "Let's be off to Simpsons, then!"

* * *

**A/N: I had to deck the halls with a Persian slipper at some point! xD**


	7. The Doctor's Dilemma

**December 7: "An unwanted invitation" (from mrspencil)**

* * *

"I am not going, and that is final." The door of Holmes' bedroom slammed shut.

Watson paced the sitting room, rubbing his temples. He needed Holmes to come to this Christmas party with him. He didn't have to stay long, he just needed to attend. And speak to one particular man: Dr. Lewis, the gentleman from whom he hoped to purchase a practice. The man had a hobbyist interest in criminal investigation, and Watson was certain if he introduced Holmes to Lewis, and they all had a few drinks together, he could convince Lewis to drop his asking price by ten percent, maybe even twenty.

"Please, Holmes," he said through the keyhole.

"I am not some sort of circus act, or a party trick to be brought out at your whim, Doctor."

"Just this once," Watson replied. "You have your work, here. But I don't. And I damn well can't afford my own place of business unless you help me."

Silence.

"I'll organize your case notes," Watson offered.

"No."

"I'll…I don't know, not complain about your violin solos at odd hours for the next month."

A quiet "harumph".

"Please."

Silence again. Watson sighed heavily, and left Holmes' door. He left the flat; a bit of fresh air would perhaps do him good. After a walk through Regent's Park, he was a somewhat milder mood, though his extremities were rather chilled. He was glad when he was back in his chair by the fire, a brandy in hand.

A moment later Holmes, emerged from his bedroom and took his own seat by the fire. "Tell me, old fellow, how much of a discount were you hoping to receive from Mr. Lewis?"

Watson hesitated for a moment, then named the figure.

"Capital!" replied Holmes. "I shall have the amount transferred to your account tomorrow morning, if it means you will stop pestering me about this blasted party."

Watson choked on his brandy. "Well—yes, of course!" he spluttered. "Holmes, you are too kind, really—"

"Think nothing of it." Holmes waved an airy hand. "Far less painful than your dreadful party."


	8. The Mystery of Miss Marinescu

**December 8: "A crystal ball causes trouble" (from mrspencil)**

**A/N: So I don't know if circuses in the Victorian era would have fortune tellers travelling with them, but it seemed reasonable, so I went with it. Enjoy!**

* * *

After years of association with Sherlock Holmes, I was somewhat used to the variety of people who came traipsing into our sitting room, but occasionally I would be surprised. Today, I arrived back at Baker Street after a long day filling in at a friend's practice to discover that my dear friend was deep in conversation with a young woman with silky dark hair, that seemed to glint almost blue in the light. When she cast a glance in my direction, there was something about her piercing, deep brown eyes that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Ah, Watson," said Holmes. "Miss Marinescu has been telling me a very singular tale." He turned to her. "Would you mind repeating the major points of your tale for the benefit of my associate? I assure you, you may trust him as you would me."

She pursed her lips. "I would prefer to trust neither of you, but my situation has given me little choice. I suppose as strange gentlemen go, doctors are fairly trustworthy?"

I looked to Holmes, then back to her. I did not not have my medical bag with me. "How do you know—?"

A hint of a smile played across her features. "Mr. Holmes is not the only one here who makes his living by carefully observing the people who come daily in and out of his place of business. You see, I am a fortune teller, and I work for a circus owned by one Mr. Saunders. The trouble started just a few weeks ago, when he asked me to marry him."

Watson raised an eyebrow. "And you refused?"

"Yes," she replied. "I do not much like him. Besides, I have my work; I have no need of a husband. But Mr. Saunders is a clever man, enough to run his circus, and a few other less-than-legal operations. His cousin, Mr. Scott, who often accompanies him, has a habit of thieving from the wealthy who visit his circus, mostly small things, like cuff links, but occasionally he aims for more impressive prizes. This time, it was a necklace made in India, a very pretty thing, and with a higher value than Mr. Scott realized when he snatched it. And unfortunately, the authorities suspect the circus may be involved, and we are not to leave London until Scotland Yard gives the word."

"I see," I replied. "But what has this to do with you?"

"Mr. Saunders took this opportunity to take his revenge for my refusing him," she replied. "He hid the necklace in the stand of my crystal ball, and showed it to me before he left to take it to the authorities. He gave me one more chance to accept his proposal, and I again refused. I have little hope of convincing the police to believe my story over his."

"Because you are a charlatan?" said Holmes, arching an eyebrow.

"Charlatan is a strong word, Mr. Holmes," she replied. "But I refer instead to the fact that I am a woman."

I chose this moment to try for a little encouragement. "Even so, any Scotland Yard Inspector worth his salt would say that your story adds up."

"Unfortunately, they are rather few and far between," said Holmes. "And it is her word against his. But fear not; I shall telegram Lestrade and tell him to ensure whichever poor sod at the Yard is attached to this missing necklace case leaves you be until the morning. I have a point or two I should like to confirm. Will you accompany me to the circus?"

"Of course," she replied.

I glanced at the time, and said that I would instead be going to bed. Neither of them seemed to pay me much mind. It was a strange dynamic, and not one I was at all used to. And it occurred to me as I was falling asleep that night that Miss Marinescu's plight while unfortunate, was not what Holmes would typically refer to as "singular". Perhaps, then, it was not the situation that he found so singular as the woman herself.

* * *

Unfortunately, the illnesses brought on by the onset of winter were plaguing dreary old London in even worse a way this week than I typically had the misfortune to see, and so I was unable to accompany Holmes during much of this adventure. Suffice it to say that Mr. Saunders and Mr. Scott were brought to justice, and Miss Marinescu safely moved on to a new city, with the circus under new (and hopefully better) ownership and management.

"I must say," said Holmes over a quiet pipe the evening after the case was resolved, "Miss Marinescu is a remarkable woman. Not only has she taken to observing the mud upon her clients in a similar manner to the way that I do, but she even has an interest in divining (pardon the phrase) a person's occupation and history from their appearance. I offered a few pointers in that respect, which she seemed to appreciate. The true wonder, though, is ability to read volumes into the slightest of facial expressions. It is a talent I spent years honing—to be sure, I am working at it to this day—but to her it seems to come as naturally as breathing. It is little wonder she has been so successful as a fortune teller! I say again: she is a a remarkable woman."

I had not heard of him speak thusly of anyone since Irene Adler.

"Do you suppose you shall ever see her again?" I asked, after a pause.

"I should think not. What reason would she have to return to London?" His tone was even, but a slight quiver of the corner of his mouth told me that perhaps my perception was not so unfounded, after all. I said nothing, but secretly hoped that her path would cross with Holmes' again someday.


	9. Wintry Walk

**December 9: "A walk in the park" (from Domina Temporis)**

* * *

"Holmes, it's snowing!" Watson peered around the curtain, a boyish grin lighting up his face.

After a lengthy pause, the detective looked up from his newspaper. "It often does that in December."

"But," replied Watson, letting the curtain fall back into place, "it has not done so yet this December, and so it is cause for celebration. Care to join me for a walk in the park?"

Holmes shrugged, then came to the window. "It seems to be blowing rather too much for a walk, don't you think?"

"Not in the slightest," Watson replied. "It is so beautiful."

"If you say so," replied Holmes. But his mood was genial enough and his work was slow enough he did accompany Watson to the park.

But as Holmes had predicted, they had not been out twenty minutes before Watson's smile of wonder fell into a grimace. It had taken several years, but Holmes was now careful enough in observing his companion to tell when his old wound was bothering him. Not to mention that he was quite chilled to the bone himself.

"What say you to a warm drink and a seat by the fire?" he asked.

Watson nodded emphatically. "I say, the sooner we have got it, the better!"

* * *

**A/N: I had roughly this exchange in my own head on the 9th; we had our first snow of December here. But it was best enjoyed from indoors!**


	10. Burnt Breakfast

**December 10: "Holmes makes a mistake" (from W.Y. Traveller)**

* * *

"Damn and blast!" Sherlock Holmes' voice echoed throughout the flat.

Watson, who was upstairs shaving, gave a violent start and pricked his chin. After a little sticking plaster (and a few oaths of his own), he came down to the sitting room to see what was the matter.

To his surprise and confusion, Holmes was not in the sitting room.

"Holmes?" he called.

"Down here," the detective replied. His voice seemed to be coming from the kitchen.

Watson climbed down the stairs, and to his surprise, found the Holmes frantically attempting to wave smoke out of the kitchen window.

"Good heavens, old man!" he exclaimed. "What is it you've done now?"

Holmes sighed heavily. "I've burnt the toast, Watson." He held out the platter containing what remained of the unfortunate wheat products.

"The toast?"

"The toast."

There was a moment of silence during which Watson's brain, still fairly fresh from sleep, attempted to grapple with the situation.

"My I ask why you are making toast and not Mrs. Hudson?" he said at last.

"I made a mistake," Holmes replied, scraping the charred toast into the bin. "You see, I have been tasked with making breakfast all week." He shook his head sadly. "If you value your life, Watson, _never_ challenge our landlady to a hand of piquet."

* * *

**A/N: An homage to Ennui Enigma's December 6th entry. I recommend it if you haven't read it yet; it is a riot!**


	11. The Inspector's Invitation

**A/N: Hello, friends! I'm happy to be back from my hiatus. Now that the final exam I was most worried about is over, and I have so much reading and writing to look forward to! Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has read and reviewed so far. I really appreciate you guys. And I look forward to catching up on reading all of your work as well!**

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**December 11: "In memory of Mary Watson." (from Book girl fan)**

* * *

"Dr. Watson, as your friend, I cannot allow you to continue in this way." Lestrade stared hard at Watson. They sat in the doctor's sitting room, each with a brandy in hand.

"What do you mean?" asked Watson gruffly. Dull eyes shone out from above dark circles, and Lestrade could have sworn there were new creases forming on the Doctor's tired face.

"You need to rest," said Lestrade. "I know you have been working eighteen, nineteen hour days lately. If you keep this up, you will be no help to anyone at all."

"These people need me," Watson growled. "I can help them."

"There are other doctors in London," said Lestrade, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

"And I have other friends, who _don't_ insist on spying on me."

A heavy silence settled over the two for a long moment.

Watson slouched back in his chair and heaved a sigh. "Sorry," he said. "I am grateful for your friendship."

"And I yours," Lestrade replied. "Besides, I didn't ask Wiggins to keep an eye on you. He knocked on my office door to tell me that he and the other boys, what did Holmes call them, 'the Irregulars'? He wanted me to know that they were worried about you."

Watson nodded.

"And I've said it before, but I still think you ought to consider a position as a police surgeon. You do not have to work too many hours, and we at the Yard really miss seeing you. Hopkins just asked after you yesterday, and even Gregson says he would love to have you around."

A shrug.

"I know you enjoy your general practitioner work, but this would allow you to see a few familiar faces more consistently, and it would get you out of your practice a little more often. A change of pace could be very refreshing."

Watson made no reply.

"I understand if you still don't want to. But please consider it?" Lestrade laid a friendly hand on Watson's shoulder, and prepared to leave.

The doctor nodded numbly. He realized he was shaking again, and all too common occurrence these days. He was barely aware of showing Lestrade to the door and returning to his sitting room.

For a long time, he sat there, eyes fixed on the dying fire. All he could see was Mary. The easy way she slid her hand into his, the way it felt to hold her slender figure in his arms, her soft kisses… He called these cherished memories to mind and watched them over and over and over. Perhaps if he relived them enough times, they would not fade, and he could keep her loving smile, her bright eyes, every inch of her in branded in his memory in the same vibrant detail they had when he had first experienced them. But even now, after just a couple of months, it was all starting to fade.

His best friend gone, and now his wife…and now he was all alone in the world. Well, not quite all alone. Perhaps Lestrade was right. He did miss many of the Scotland Yarders he met because of Holmes. At the very least, it would be nice to see Lestrade more often.

He decided to apply tomorrow.


	12. Haunted House

**December 12: "A night in a haunted house" (from mrspencil)**

**A/N: A drabble.**

* * *

"A haunted house, eh?" Watson quirked an eyebrow.

"Oh, yes," Holmes replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure we'll see all kinds of ghosties and ghoulies."

"Hush," replied Watson. "The article you pointed to says 'haunted house' and I'm going to refer to it as that unless you give me another name."

"Fair enough, I suppose" Holmes replied. "I believe this Halloween-themed attraction is a front for money laundering and moving around large quantities of drugs. I propose a stakeout."

* * *

"Well, that was a blasted waste of time."

Watson quirked a smile. "Magnificent cobwebs, though."

Holmes' scowl deepened.


	13. Cherished China

**December 13: "Jinxed" (from Winter Winks 221)**

**A/N: Sequel to the last, and another drabble**

* * *

"Jinxed?" said Mrs. Hudson as she poured a cup of tea. "You, Mr. Holmes, of all people, know that sort of thing is utter nonsense."

Holmes only groaned, his long, thin form stretched languidly across the settee. "Ever since the stakeout at that so-called haunted house, everything that can go wrong has done so."

"What a poor excuse," replied Mrs. Hudson. "After all these years of correcting me and the good Doctor on our logical fallacies, you cannot expect that I would take that as an excuse for breaking my best teapot."

He shrugged. "It was worth a try."


	14. The Magnificent Mycroft

**December 14: "Mycroft Saves the Day" (from Ennui Enigma)**

* * *

"If you have come to ask me to exert my influence over foreign dignitaries, the answer is no," said Mycroft firmly.

"No, no, nothing of that sort," Sherlock replied, shrugging out of his coat.

"Well then," Mycroft leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Have you come to ask if I will dress as Father Christmas again? That was a one time occurrence, under very particular circumstances."

"Again, wrong," Sherlock replied. "Dear brother, you _are_ becoming rather slow in your old age."

"Piffle," Mycroft replied. "Fifty-five is practically the flower of youth these days."

Sherlock only laughed. "I had an idea for Watson for Christmas, but I need your help to accomplish it."

Mycroft thought for a moment. Normally, he would be wholly unwilling to participate in any such scheme. Years ago, he had been baffled by the way his little brother had taken to the crippled army medic who agreed to room with him, but as the years went by (especially those three during which Sherlock was "dead"), he had come to know and appreciate Watson as well.

"Of course," Mycroft replied.


	15. The Devilish Detective

**December 15: "A snowy day on the moor" (from mrspencil)**

* * *

Holmes threw open the window of the room they were occupying during this case. "Ah! Fresh air, how wonderful." A few errant snowflakes blew inside and melted on the detective's pristine black suit.

Watson, who until that moment had been both asleep and warm, was now neither. "Shut that window, you old fool," he grumbled, pulling the bedclothes tighter around him. He had the disadvantage of his bed being nearest the window, as well as the fact that large, old houses are far colder as those who have never stayed the night in one during the winter would imagine.

"Good morning, Watson," Holmes replied with a grin. "I do hope I haven't awoken you. After all, a quarter past eight is dreadfully early."

"If the sun hasn't risen yet, it's early," Watson replied. "I'm sure it is a regular winter wonderland out there on the moor, but I was so looking forward to just a little more sleep."

"That's not what you said when you were poring over that penny dreadful till midnight last night."

"Hush," Watson replied with a chuckle as he stretched and, with some regret, climbed out of bed. "Now that I'm awake, I feel famished."

"I'm sure I could make you a little stew. Do you recall that time during the Baskerville case—"

"Please," replied Watson shuffling across the room to find his clothes. "If I ever agree to eat food made by you, it is time to have me put into a madhouse!"

* * *

**A/N: The stew is a direct reference to that oddball scene in the Jeremy Brett adaptation of Hound of the Baskervilles, an hour and 17 minutes in:**

_**"Do try my stew."**_

_**"It's quite disgusting, Holmes."**_

_**"Yes, yes it is."**_

**I think about that stew maybe once every six months, and I suspect that will continue until the day I die.**


	16. Kris Kringle, the Crook

**December 16: "The rotund man in a red coat" (from W.Y. Traveller)**

* * *

"A rotund man in a red coat," Holmes muttered, holding the telegram close to his hawk-like nose.

"That could be anyone here," Watson replied dismally, peering in the window at the Father Christmas impersonation contest.

"So it could," Holmes replied, pocketing the telegram. "It would seem our friend Lestrade is not of much help to us today."

"Just one moment, now," came Lestrade's voice from the street, as he exited a hansom cab. "I just procured a sketch of the gentleman in question. He stepped quickly across the sidewalk, pulled a folded paper from his coat pocket, and showed it to the other two. The man in the drawing had piercing blue eyes and a distinctive scar on his left temple.

"Thank you; I'm sure this will be very helpful, Inspector," said Watson.

"Indeed," Holmes added.

"I may not have your brain, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, his chest puffing out just a little, "but we at Scotland Yard keep our noses to the grindstone."

Holmes flashed a smile. "So you do. Let us find our man."


	17. Ridiculous Research

**December 17: "Libraries" (from sirensbane)**

* * *

"Well, at least we learned _something_ after all of this nonsense," Watson groaned as they trudged up the stairs to the sitting room of 221b.

"And what's that, old fellow?" asked Holmes.

"I don't know," Watson replied. "But it feels as if we ought to have learned something. It should be illegal to spend 14 consecutive hours in a library and learn nothing at all."

Holmes sighed. It had been rather a wild goose chase, putting the pieces together on this latest case.

Watson sat down heavily in his chair by the fire, flexing his sore fingers. "My poor hands! I am getting too old for this nonsense. If I have to cut brittle twine off another ancient tome and hold it at a 30 degree angle to prevent the spine from cracking while I try vainly to peer inside… Well, I do not get paid enough for such things, Holmes!"

Holmes laughed. "You have always been a highly inexpensive helpmate, old fellow. Would you consider the debt paid if I take you to Simpson's? If your hands are feeling up to the task of holding silverware by dinnertime, of course."

"What a funny thing!" replied Watson with a grin. "It seems they feel much better already."

* * *

**A/N: Shoutouts to Dextrous Fred and SheWhoScrawls—the description of the old books is inspired by an experience while exploring SheWhoScrawls' local library. Of course, we had much more fun than Holmes and Watson had here. :)**

**And if I ever get to meet any of you guys in real life, I will happily explore your library!**


	18. Bees, Bees, Bees

**December 18: "Write a drabble - that is, a story that is exactly 100 words long - on the subject of 'bees'" (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

* * *

**A/N: It felt like a good time to write a poem. Guess I wasn't feeling quite constrained enough yet. XD**

* * *

Dear Watson, say, I have some news:

My latest subject—great to muse—

The honey bees and bumble bees

That bumble gladly through the trees!

-o-

And mason, mining, leafcutter,

The lovely sounds that they do utter,

Oh! Flower, long-horned, stingless bees;

Some hibernate, all love the breeze,

-o-

The hairy-footed flower bee;

It lives alone—it's just like me.

Many, it seems, are solitary,

More than I thought ordinary.

-o-

Friend Watson, come and see me soon!

I'm free till Thursday afternoon.

My books and bees are great, it's true,

But so, old friend, it seems, are you.

-o-

Sincerely,

S.H.


	19. Circus Skills

**December 19: "Holmes has to take strange precautions" (from PowerOfPens)**

**A/N: Sequel to December 8: "The Mystery of Miss Marinescu".**

* * *

After so many years of association with Sherlock Holmes, I thought that I would be more used to my friend and flatmate's strange doings. And yet, it is occasions like this that prove to me that we could live a thousand years and never cease to surprise me.

I came downstairs one morning, still rubbing blearily at my eyes, to discover that Holmes was, in fact, juggling. Quite successfully, I might add! Given his seemingly infinite ability to carefully hone skills and personal affectations necessary for going undercover, not to mention his impressive dexterity, I supposed I should not be surprised. I stood somewhat enraptured as he sent three balls flying though the air in our little flat, sometimes inches from the ceiling. Then, without missing a beat, he added a fourth ball.

"Well done, Holmes!" I exclaimed.

He looked to the doorway in surprise, and two of the balls hit the ground.

"Damn and blast, Watson," he growled.

"I guess you need a little more practice," I replied with a grin.

"Well, I only began last night," he replied, gathering the balls that had rolled across the carpet. "That much is inevitable. But I believe I shall be ready for tonight."

"What happens tonight?"

"I audition for a small position in the circus," he replied. "A fire-eater has consulted me about an odd matter involving a lion-tamer and a contortionist. I am eager to gain firsthand insights on the matter."

I picked up the newspaper sitting on the breakfast table. Sure enough, the circus that was currently in London was the same circus Miss Marinescu left with all those months ago.

Just before Holmes began his next bout of juggling, I broke the silence again. "I hope you are able to spend some time with her, old fellow."

Holmes gave a sharp bark of a laugh. "I think you misunderstand my affection for the young lady. But I am certain I will see Miss Marinescu once or twice before this case is through. Perhaps she will even be able to assist us in this matter."


	20. Gregson's Gift

**December 20: "Sherlock attempts to deduce what Lestrade got Gregson for Christmas this year." (from Wordwielder)**

* * *

"Mind your own business, old fellow," said Watson gently.

Holmes gave a derisive snort. "Need I remind you that I make my living poking into others' affairs? This is a perfectly harmless activity."

They were in the sitting room at 221b, nearly ready to depart for the Scotland Yard Christmas party. Lestrade was going to accompany them, but when he arrived, he quickly realized he had forgotten the bottle of wine he intended to bring, and so made the (perhaps shortsighted) decision to entrust his small bag of gifts to Holmes and Watson while he went to fetch it.

Holmes reached in the bag and plucked out a sloppily wrapped rectangular package and laughed. "Why, the ink is easily twice as smudged on this package as all the others; written hastily _and_ sloppily. Although, Gregson cannot complain; I would not be at all surprised if he has no gift at all for Lestrade."

"It would seem to be a book," said Watson, his curiosity at last overcoming his misgivings.

"Of course it is a book," Holmes replied. "It is only a question of what sort."

Watson leaned in closer. "A journal? A monograph? A work of fiction, perhaps?"

"It is difficult to say for certain," Holmes replied. "Given the label, though, not to mention the wrapping, very little effort was put into this purchase. I recall that Lestrade enjoys stopping by a particular bookshop, Mortimer's, on his way home from the Yard on Fridays, usually browsing but occasionally making a purchase. The window display in that establishment has contained an inexpensive journal bound in brown leather, advertised to be selling at half price. I suspect it is this that he has given Gregson."

"That seems a bit of a stretch." Watson shook his head. "Well, we shall have to wait and see."

* * *

When Gregson opened his gift and revealed a brown leather journal, one or two of those gathered noted the knowing look exchanged by Holmes and Watson, but none knew what it meant.


	21. A Tonsorial Tale

**A/N: Prompt at the end.**

* * *

A group of Irregulars huddled together under blankets, munching Mrs. Hudson's various baked goods and sipping hot chocolate. Holmes was seated in the corner, a quiet smile across his thin features. Watson had decided it was a good evening for a little storytelling game.

"It was a dark and stormy evening," Watson began. "Now Wiggins, it's your turn."

Wiggins cleared his throat. "The great Sherlock 'Olmes was walking in the rain."

Next, it was Tom. "Mr. 'Olmes was out walking in the rain because…'e wanted to get a shave."

Watson and the rest of the Irregulars chuckled. Holmes absently rubbed at the stubble on his chin.

Now, Billy: "So 'e walked ta the barber shop, an' he had ta wait in line."

Harry: "While 'e was there, 'e started deducin' things about tha other gen'lemen there."

Watson: "But he kept the observations to himself, deciding for once to avoid needlessly offending strangers."

This elicited a giggle.

Wiggins: "Soon it was 'is turn ta sit down in the chair an' get 'is 'aircut and shave."

Tom: "But then 'e started makin' deductions about the barber."

Billy: "An' the barber was…a murderer!"

Harry: "Even though 'e only had half a shave, 'e jumped right out of tha chair, an' put 'im in 'andcuffs!"

Watson: "And with that, the murderous barber was arrested and Holmes finished his haircut and shave somewhere else. The end!"

Holmes, in a surprisingly good humor (even he was not wholly immune to the Christmas spirit), began a round of applause, and the others joined in.

* * *

**December 21: "While getting his shave, Sherlock begins deducing his barber may have a much more demonic and murderous intent than the detective first realized." (from Michael JG Meathook)**


	22. An Irreconcilable Inversion

**December 22: "Invert" (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

* * *

Mrs. Hudson's strength was great in many areas of her life, and her health was no different. She often went months or years without even the common cold to trouble her (an impressive feat, when one is landlady to a doctor). But this year, bad luck had gotten the better of her, and she was bedridden with a fever for two days, during which she slept fitfully.

During this time, she awoke in the middle of one afternoon with a shout. Watson, who had accidentally fallen asleep in the chair he had dragged into her bedroom, sprang to attention.

"Heavens above!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Doctor, I'm so sorry for waking you. I had a dreadful nightmare."

"I'm sorry to hear it," said he, rubbing his aching neck.

She shook her head. "I can hardly begin to describe it! Mr. Holmes was…different. He worked at predictable hours for a respectable bank, and he only played the violin during the day, and there were no papers or criminal relics scattered about…"

Watson fought to keep the smile from his face, and Mrs. Hudson noticed.

"Oh, yes," she said, waving a hand, "it sounds very amusing now, but I was horrified! Who was this gentleman, I wanted to know, and what he done with my Mr. Holmes?"

"In your shoes, I'm sure I would have been just as alarmed," Watson assured her.


	23. Drowning Detective

**December 23: "Breathe! For God's sake, breathe man!" (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

**A/N: This one wanted to be written in a weird, fragmentary style. I hope it works.**

* * *

Cold.

Dark.

Where was he?

Agony.

Holmes became aware that his abdomen was cramping and his lungs were on fire.

Confusion.

Panic.

Anger.

He was not sure if the world was dark and silent or if he was trapped in his mind like an impenetrable steal box.

Vertigo.

Disorientation.

His thoughts were a jumbled mess, and he could not remember what had led up to this moment.

Then,

Flashes of events:

A chase through the woods.

The river.

Ice.

Then, ice giving way to water, pulling him under.

Then nothing.

Cold.

Dark.

The pain became sharper somehow, at intervals, but his thoughts grew more muddled.

Something was pushing, no pounding his chest.

Then, from the nothing, a voice:

"Breathe!"

Was that Watson?

"For God's sake, breathe, man!"

It had to be.

Then, all at once, Holmes felt his body seizing up to expel the water from his lungs, then at last letting in that first breath.


	24. A Meritorious Masquerade

**December 24: "A masquerade ball" (from W. Y. Traveller)**

* * *

"Well, I've done it," said Holmes merrily as removed his coat and tossed a masquerade mask haphazardly in the direction of his desk.

Watson looked up from the book he was reading. "You cornered Moriarty's agent?"

"Indeed," Holmes replied, carefully removing false facial hair. "Her keen observational skills made it a bit of a challenge."

"Ah, hence the graying beard," said Watson. "Playing the respectable older gentleman, then?"

"I feared even that would not be enough," Holmes replied. "I played the respectable older gentleman with two left feet. She had no idea it was me until she let slip the information I needed."

"That must have been quite the challenge!" Watson chuckled.

"Not so, old fellow," Holmes replied with a grin. "I simply imitated your style."

Watson replied with hearty swat to his friend's shoulder with The Times.


	25. A Snowy Day Surprise

**December 25: "A mystery for a snowy day" (from V Tsuion)**

**A/N: Merry Christmas, friends!**

* * *

"Mr. Holmes, what have you done with my flour?" Mrs. Hudson demanded. "There are a good two or more cups missing."

"I have done nothing to your flour," he replied stiffly from behind a monograph. "Perhaps you simply forgot you used it."

The landlady left in a huff, but returned a few minutes later to demand to know what had happened to her sugar. Holmes' reply was the same.

Mrs. Hudson was dubious, but ready to chalk it all up to forgetfulness. That is, until she realized the same fate had met her butter, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, eggs, and apples. But now, at least, she had a working theory.

The good landlady continued her kitchen-related tasks, but stopped when there was a ring at the bell. Who should greet her there but a dozen little street urchins, all beaming from ear to ear, Watson following behind. Snowflakes floated gently down from the sky onto their shoulders and hats.

The lads held out two apple pies, rather poorly constructed, but baked properly. "Merry Christmas, Mrs. 'Udson!" they cried.

"I confess, I may have taken a thing or two from your kitchen," said Watson with a smile.

"That's quite all right," she replied. "Merry Christmas to you as well!"


	26. Fabulous Footwear

**December 26: "This old thing?" (from BookRookie12)**

* * *

Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Watson were doing a little shopping together (it was far more enjoyable together than alone, after all), and found themselves in a shoe shop. Mrs. Watson was in need of a new pair of everyday shoes (her current ones were taking on an uncomfortable amount of water when it rained) and so she browsed through the shoes available, mostly subtle brown ones.

"Oh, would you look at these," said Mrs. Hudson, holding up a pair with more vibrant coloring.

Mrs. Watson gasped and then let out a chuckle. "My goodness!"

"Do try them on," Mrs. Hudson urged. "I want to see them on you."

"If you insist," Mrs. Watson replied, and sat down to put on the shoes. When she stood up, she gasped: they were far more comfortable than any other shoes she had tried on so far. "Goodness!" she said. "These are lovely." She paced a few steps.

Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows. "Well, I never would have expected it, but I am so glad you like them!"

* * *

When they returned to Baker Street, Dr. Watson had returned and was waiting for them.

"Well, dear, was your trip a success?" asked he asked.

"I should say so," she replied, lifting her skirt a little and poking out one of her feet.

"Why, Mary, what lovely shoes!" exclaimed Dr. Watson with a smile.

"Oh, these old things?" she replied with a similar grin.

Mrs. Hudson smiled to herself as the two left arm in arm.

* * *

**A/N: Inspired by a similar shopping incident with my sister. Shoutout to her and her new American flag patterned cowboy boots!**


	27. The Iconic Introduction

**December 27: "Rewrite a moment in one of the stories from the original canon." (from Hades Lord of the Dead)**

**A/N: Longer today, because much of this is straight from Doyle himself. I'm sure others have done this before, but please enjoy regardless!**

* * *

I was hard at work at St. Bart's, and had been for some hours. My new theory about a blood test had seemed like lightening in a bottle when I awoke in my dreary flat in Montague Street some twenty-odd hours ago, but for all of my efforts, it was not yet quite right. With a growl (which seemed to frighten the sole other student in the lab), I stretched and began to pace. Perhaps now would be a good time to eat, as I was making no progress here.

I was halfway through a sandwich of rather dubious quality when I realized my mistake, and rushed back to the lab. I grabbed one of the dried blood samples I had taken from myself at the start of my project. It being several hours old now, I could run my test in a similar way blood from a crime scene might be tested. Again elbows deep in retorts, test-tubes, little Bunsen lamps, and all matter of chemicals, I was not at all aware of anything but my work. At last, I dropped the blood-speckled cloth into the liter of water, and carefully measured the proper amounts of the solid and the liquid I would add. Heart pounding, I dropped them in too. With a surge of joy and wonder, I watched as the entire glass jar became a dull mahogany color, with a brownish dust precipitating to the bottom. Wonderful! At last it was working properly!

Just then, I heard footsteps, and saw Stamford entering with a fellow I had never seen, recently discharged military doctor by the look of him. Rather underweight. Quite tan—most likely Afghanistan. But that did not matter at present.

"I've found it! I've found it!" I cried aloud as I leapt up, test tube in hand, and running to Stamford.

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, introducing me to his companion.

Ah, of course! I had mentioned needing a fellow-lodger to Stamford. If I had to spend another day near that dreadful landlady in Montague Street, would lose the final remaining shreds of my sanity. It was time to put my best foot forward, and hope this fellow would not mind me and my oddities too much. Well, at least for as long as it took me to begin earning the sort of money I would need to pay for a Baker Street address on my own.

"How are you?" I said, giving his hand a cordial shake. I decided I should see how he would react to a little deduction or two. "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."

His eyes widened in the most delightful expression of astonishment. "How on earth did you know that?"

"Never mind," I said, chuckling. Oh, this would be fun. But there were more important matters than impressing this army fellow. "The question now is about hemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine?"

Dr. Watson paused for a moment brow furrowed. "It is interesting chemically, no doubt, but practically—"

My impatience got the better of me, I'm afraid, and I interrupted his ramblings. "Why, man, it is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years. Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains? Come over here now!" I grabbed my new acquaintance by the coat-sleeve in my eagerness, and drew him over to my work table. "Let us have some flesh blood." I repeated the test I had just run before these two arrived, and they watched with interest as I performed it again, this time with new blood. And to my continued joy, it worked just the same! "Ha! ha!" I cried, clapping my hands. "What do you think of that?"

"It seems to be a very delicate test," he remarked.

"Beautiful! beautiful! The old Guiacum test was very clumsy and uncertain. So is the microscopic examination for blood corpuscles. The latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this appears to work well whether the blood is old or new. Had this test been invented, there are hundreds of men now walking ht earth who would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes."

"Indeed!" the man murmured, a thoughtful look playing across his open features. Stamford looked on with interest.

"Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His linen or clothes are examined, and brownish stains discovered upon them. Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains, or what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many an expert, and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes Test, and there will no longer be any difficulty." As I spoke, I imagined I was delivering this address not just to these two, but an entire lecture hall full of scholars and police officials and medical men, who were all greatly fascinated and impressed, and when I ended my explanation, I gave into my more dramatic side, and took a bow.

"You ought to be congratulated," remarked Dr. Watson, appearing slightly surprised by my enthusiasm. No matter; it would not do for him to perceive me as an ordinary man if I must live with him for any length of time. And he appeared to be genuinely interested, so I went on.

"There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He certainly would have been hung had this test been in existence. Then there was Mason of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of Montpelier, and Samson of New Orleans. I could name a score of cases in which it would have been decisive."

"You seem to be a walking calendar of crime," said Stamford with a laugh. "You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the 'Police News of the Past.'"

"Very interesting reading it might be made, too," I replied, remembering at last to put sticking plaster over the prick I had made in my finger. "I have to be careful," I continued, turning to Dr. Watson with a smile, "for I dabble with poisons a good deal." I held out my hand, and he raise his eyebrows when he noted the other plaster-covered pricks, as well as the scarring from acids and such.

"We came here on business," said Stamford, seating himself on a high three-legged stool and pushing another one to his companion with his foot. "My friend here wants to take diggings, and as you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I thought I had better bring you together."

I smiled again (first impressions, and all of that nonsense). "I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street, which would suit us right down to the ground. You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?"

"I always smoke 'ship's' myself," he answered.

"That's good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?"

I watched his expression carefully, but he appeared perfectly honest when he replied, "By no means."

"Let me see—what are my other shortcomings. I get in the dumps at times, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I'll soon be right." Now, this would be the interesting part. "What have you to confess now? It's just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together."

Dr. Watson laughed. "I keep a bull pup," he said, "and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of vices when I am well, but those are the principal ones at present."

That should not be a problem, I thought. Except— "Do you include violin-playing in your category of rows?"

"It depends on the player," he replied. "A well-played violin is a treat for the gods—a badly-played one—"

"Oh, that's all right!" I exclaimed with a laugh. This was going swimmingly! "I think we may consider the thing as settled—that is, if the rooms are agreeable to you."

"When shall we see them?" the Doctor asked.

I thought for a moment. "Call for me here at noon tomorrow, and we'll go together and settle everything."

"All right—noon exactly," he replied, shaking my hand.

With that, the pair departed. Well, I had not expected to find such a mellow fellow-lodger so quickly and so easily! And there was no doubt he would agree to the rooms; they were quite nice, reasonably priced, and the Mrs. Hudson woman I had spoken to seemed to be the best sort. I trusted I could keep my mess and my other less-than-desirable antics to a reasonable level while I had a fellow-lodger. And the way my work was going, I should not need one for too many months. I smiled to myself, and began to clean up the lab. This had been an excellent day!


	28. Boyhood Books

**December 28: "Outer space" (from V Tsuion)**

* * *

It was late at night after a particularly trying case. Holmes and Watson had each had a brandy or two hours ago, and now sat in contemplative silence in their chairs by the fire, as the clock ticked its way well into the early hours of the morning.

"Holmes?" said Watson at length.

"Hm?" the detective grunted from his slumped position on the settee.

"Have you ever wondered what it would be like to visit outer space?" Watson asked.

Holmes sighed. "You have been reading far too much romantic fiction, old fellow."

"But have you?" Watson pressed.

"It is hardly pertinent to my work," Holmes continued.

"Still, you are not answering the question," said Watson. He grinned, realizing he was onto something.

Holmes sighed heavily. "Oh, fine, Watson. If you must know, I read a good deal of Jules Verne as a child. One of my aunts gifted me _From the Earth to the Moon_ when I was a boy of eleven or twelve. It was one of my favorite books at the time."

"Ha!" Watson replied. "I knew you must have something stored in that brain attic of yours besides criminal data and German music."

"Oh, hush, Watson."


	29. Heartfelt Hugs

**December 29: "Embrace" (from Winter Winks 221)**

**A/N: I may have pushed Holmes past the limit of in-character, but I hope you enjoy regardless. :)**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes stood at the train station nearest his home in Sussex, eagerly awaiting Watson's arrival. At long last, the train arrived, and his friend stepped off and into the station.

"Watson! It is so good to see you," Holmes exclaimed.

Watson's face lit up, and he rushed to meet his friend. "You as well, old fell—" he stopped short as his friend pulled him into a swift embrace.

"Are you well?" Holmes asked with some concern as he pulled away.

"Oh yes, quite," Watson replied. "It's just, well, that was unusual."

"Unusual?" Holmes frowned. "Here, let me take your bag."

"No, no, I can handle it," Watson replied, as they walked through the station. "But that embrace was unusual. You have never greeted me as such before. In fact, I am not convinced I have ever seen you embrace anyone before!"

"Nonsense," Holmes replied tersely. "I'm sure I must have done."

"Well, barring that time I nearly died from a fever, and two, maybe three times I was shot rather badly, I am certain you have never done so."

"Not even in '93 when I returned from the dead, so to speak? I must have embraced you then." He called a motor car to take them to the countryside, and climbed in.

"It was '94, Holmes, and I assure you," Watson replied, climbing in behind his friend, "you did not."

"Are you quite certain?" Holmes was frowning now.

"Yes, I am," Watson replied with a chuckle. "You scared the very life out of me, and I woke up to you pouring brandy down my throat, but that's all."

"Ah, well," Holmes replied, with a little embarrassment. "I hope you do not mind."

"Not at all," Watson replied, still smiling. "We have been friends for decades. An embrace now and again certainly would be anything strange. After all, it is 1925, not 1895; everyone is a bit more relaxed about these sorts of things."

"Well, we are old men now," Holmes replied. "So I suppose to us, it is always 1895, is it not?" He gestured widely. "Look at your suit, for heavens' sake!"

"Look at yours!" Watson replied. "Why, that has not been in style since before the turn of the century!"

Holmes only laughed. "Well, now that we have established that we are both out-of-date old men, how about we engage in that remarkable pastime of reminiscing?"

"Naturally," Watson replied. "Perhaps this time I shall convince you to put pen to paper and write a tale yourself."

"Not a chance!" Holmes replied.

* * *

**A/N: I just had to include that final exchange because (according my favorite source, Wikipedia) both stories written from Holmes' POV were published in 1926, the next year.**


	30. Hidden from Holmes

**December 30: "Wiggins on the case" (from Wordwielder)**

**A/N: Were I not so sick with a cold, I might have written a "real" response. But this image popped into my head instead…**

* * *

"Where in heaven's name is it?" Holmes cried.

"Hush, you'll wake him," Watson replied, gesturing to Wiggins, resting peacefully on the settee. He had been brought in that morning by two younger Irregulars, as he had an awful fever. Watson had spent the better part of the morning treating him.

"Apologies," Holmes replied. "But a black briefcase. I brought it in it last night. Have you seen it anywhere, old fellow?"

Watson shook his head, and the two combed through the piles of clutter in the sitting room.

"Aha!" Watson said at length. "Holmes, it would seem that Wiggins is, quite literally, on the case."

Sure enough, peeking out from under the head of the chief Irregular, was the briefcase. Watson snatched up a throw pillow, and gently moved the boy enough to replace the briefcase with it. Wiggins stirred a little, but remained asleep.

"Thank you, old fellow," said Holmes. "Take care of Wiggins; I shall be back shortly."


	31. Vivid Visions

**December 31: "There and Back Again" (from sirensbane)**

**A/N: Thank you everyone for another awesome December! And a special thanks to Hades for putting this shindig on year after year. Happy New Year, all!**

_**Short and silly again, so I manage to post before midnight!**_

* * *

Holmes was sleeping fitfully on the settee, after several restless nights working on a case. He awoke with a shout, and Watson rushed in to make sure his friend was all right.

"Seven-percent solution again?" Watson queried, a disapproving look in his eye.

"Not this time," Holmes replied. "But goodness, I have never had a dream like that before! I was in a whole other world, with dwarves, and elves, dragons, and…_hobbits_?"

"Hobbits?" asked the Doctor, sitting down next to his friend. "What on earth is a hobbit?"

Holmes rubbed his temple. "It's all fading away so quickly…I no longer know. I felt as though I had gone so far away."

"Well, wherever you have been, I'm glad you're back again," said Watson.

"As am I, old fellow."


End file.
